


Dark Wings

by Aspera



Series: The Heart Is A Muscle [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Gen, How Do I Tag, POV Tamlin (ACoTaR), Tamlin The Tool, a little violence, but i liked this idea, i still hate him, tamlin and the wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 01:24:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspera/pseuds/Aspera
Summary: Tamlin is adjusting to his new life as High Lord of the Spring Court.Is it a manifestation of his guilt, or is he hearing voices?~~~





	Dark Wings

They were mocking him. Whispering things.

                And not his courtiers, or those that remained anyway. Though Tamlin knew that they were mocking him too. At least they had the grace to do it behind his back. He was never meant to be the High Lord, and he was making an absolute mess of things. He knew it. All he had ever been good at was waging war, and he didn’t have time to spare for the inane mockery of lesser faeries.

                Not like these gods-forsaken _war trophies_ of his father’s.

                All he had wanted was a moment’s peace away from the petitioners in the throne room. He was meant to be reassuring his people in this time of transition after his father’s reign had ended so abruptly. Tamlin was meant to make as many appearances as possible. To look noble and just and majestic on a throne made of carved wood in a green doublet to match his eyes. The library had been a place of refuge during his tumultuous childhood, and so Tamlin had evaded his honour guard and slipped inside for a moment, if only to pour a glass of Beron’s finest scotch and stare into the fire.

                They accused him from their place over the mantel in the library. It had been his father’s proudest moment, picturing the High Lord of the Night Court _finally_ brought low. How Tamlin’s father had grinned with unrestrained glee. His brothers had whooped with triumph as they set the package down the river. Tamlin hand hung back, disgusted by the spectacle. Hadn’t he? He had to have. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Rhysand was supposed to be there.

                Rhysand. Tamlin growled and threw his glass into the fire. There was a burst of flame as the alcohol ignited. _Good_ , Tamlin thought darkly. _Let it burn._ Tamlin clenched his fists, turning away from the fireplace. It was brutally hot in the library; the morning had dawned wet and grey, and a librarian had once scolded Tamlin’s mother into oblivion for the moldering books lining the shelves. Tamlin gripped the wooden mantelpiece. Deep grooves appeared in the wood.

                _He was your best friend, and you used him,_ the wings whispered accusingly. _He came to you and offered you nothing but kindness and respect and you betrayed him._

                “I did nothing of the kind!” Tamlin yelled back at them. There was a squeak somewhere behind him as the brownie who had been dusting the shelves startled and scampered away. He barely heard her, his gaze focused on the wings over the mantelpiece. “He never cared about me. Father said – Father said that he was befriending me to spy on Spring. That his father had set him up to it. He betrayed me first!”

                Tamlin wanted to tear them off the wall. Illyrian wings were nothing to look at anyway – black and leathery. One set was as tall as a man, with a wickedly hooked talon at the top of the wing joint. The other was small, no taller than a child.

                Rhysand’s sister had been a _child_. How could they have – it had to have been an accident.

                “It was an accident!” Tamlin yelled at the small set of wings, the membrane barely even fully opaque. He pushed away from the mantel, burying his head in his hands. Tamlin felt his flesh tear beneath the claws that he could not keep sheathed.

                _You know that to be false, Tamlin, Son of Spring_ , came the voice of the Lady of the Night Court.

                “It wasn’t – I wasn’t – I didn’t mean for that to happen. You know that,” Tamlin said, turning back to face her. No, to face the wings. The Lady of the Night Court was dead. She was _dead_ , and ghosts were a silly story made up by mortals to keep their children out of the forests of Prythian after dark.

                _Yes, I am dead_ , came the mocking voice. If Tamlin didn’t know any better, he would detect a note of bemused exasperation in her tone. _For you and your brothers killed me and my daughter, then sent our heads downstream to be picked up by my sons._

                Tamlin wanted to gag. He wanted to claw his ears out. He wanted to tear down all of the books that his mother had collected to escape into and throw them on the fire. He needed to destroy something. He needed to fight. That was what he was best at, after all. It was what his father had always said. That was why he had allowed the friendship with Rhysand in the first place. “You will learn to fight the way an Illyrian does,” his father had said before sending him away. “That half-breed whelp will teach you to defeat him in battle, and we will finally get our due. The Night Court has been too powerful for too long. We cannot allow the Illyrian abominations to defeat us any longer.” His father had taken one look at Tamlin before turning back to his morning cup of chocolate. “You will do this for me, Tamlin, and I will forgive your past… indiscretions.”

                He pushed his hair away from his face, the golden strands catching on his claws. “I don’t have to listen to this,” Tamlin growled under his breath. “I am the High Lord of the Spring Court. I have the power here, not some little Illyrian bitch.”

                _You wouldn’t know what true power was if it stared you in the face, mongrel,_ the Lady of Night spat. Tamlin had never heard her use that tone in life. Not at the many Court functions he had attended as a child, not even on the riverbank that day.

She had leveled her hazel eyes at him, as she stood in front of her daughter, wings spread protectively. The talons at the top of her wings had glinted in the harsh sunlight of the Illyrian Steppes. The Lady of Night had not cried, she hadn’t begged. She had just clasped her daughter’s hand and looked deep into Tamlin’s eyes. “You know what he will do when he finds us, don’t you, my lord?” she had asked. Tamlin hadn’t been able to bear the look on her face, or her daughter’s sniffling. He wanted to turn away, to look at literally anything else, but those eyes held him captive.

“What are you waiting for, boy?” his father had screamed. “Take her! Kill her! What is the use in having a _beast_ for a son if you can’t kill when I tell you to? Pathetic. Step aside and let your brothers do the work.”

There had been so much blood. Tamlin could still smell it on him, no matter how many scalding baths he took. A tiny girl, the smallest young Fae that Tamlin could ever remember seeing, and she had had so much blood. It didn’t seem possible. He had gagged then, even though these were far from the first kills he had ever witnessed. The Courts had been at war far too often, but the murder of a mother and a child, it was just war too gruesome.

“I didn’t want to do it,” Tamlin said hoarsely. “I didn’t want to take him there. But I – I had to. He _made_ me. Neither of my brothers could winnow. I was – I was the only one that could take him to – you weren’t supposed to be alone. Rhys was supposed to be there. He was supposed to sacrifice himself for you, so then –”

Tamlin did retch then, all over the wood floor and the soft calfskin boots that a cluricaun had given to him as part of the Tithe. He shivered in the stifling room, a cold sweat running down his back, making his tunic stick to him. In any other moment, he would have torn it off and doused the fire, but Tamlin kept his eyes trained on the wings above the mantel.

He waited several long moments, just staring. “Cauldron boil me, now you choose to be silent? Have you nothing more to say?” Tamlin raged, fingers grasping at the glass frame his father had prepared for this exact purpose, mere months before.

 _Return me to my son, Tamlin,_ the Lady of the Night Court said simply. _Perhaps then you can begin to heal. Do the right thing._

“No,” Tamlin growled, forearms burning as they too made the transition to his beastly form. “I have a much better idea.”

The glass in the frame shattered as Tamlin tore it from the wall. The mantelpiece fell to the floor with a crash, and the library door burst open. “Is all well, my lord?” came a tentative voice from the doorway.

Dust filled the air and stung Tamlin’s eyes. “No, Alys, but it soon will be,” he said brusquely, dragging the frame across the library floor. Glass tinkled against the wooden parquet as Tamlin shook his head. “Have the guards prepare a pyre on the edge of the grounds. And send the petitioners away. I’m in need of a hunt. They can come back next week.”

Tamlin didn’t wait for a response. He just dragged the broken frame and its mercifully silent contents through the halls of the manor.

No one would ever dare mock the High Lord of Spring again, least of all the dead.

 


End file.
